Bardwell looked over at the boy—who in his mind still had a little learning ahead of him—smiling. “We ain’t ever not gotten our man, Son. I’d say that was pretty efficient tactically speaking?”
“You’re right, Sir,” Curtis said. “We haven’t ever not gotten one, not that they haven’t tried.”
“So how did you two get this McDaniel?” Mitchell asked. “It sounds like a lot of men might have tried over the course of time.”
“Well, Bose,” Bardwell said. “We got that dispatch that I told you about, turned over our man and started south down the great valley. It was during the cool of the year and the ride wasn’t so bad the way I remember it.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“How are we going to do this, Sir?” Curtis asked. The day was near its end as the pair of lawmen from Sacramento made their way up through the hills between the mountain pass leading south to Los Angeles and the farming settlement of Broken Hill. This far from the ancient highways, the lawmen didn’t expect to see much of anyone here in the wilds.
“Most of their cattle have either died off or gone astray,” Bardwell said. “I don’t reckon that we’ll have to worry much about seeing anyone riding the pastures above the village?”
“So we wait?”
“Yes,” Bardwell said. “We’ll find us a good spot for the horses and a place to camp for a few days. You and I can walk to the top of the hill looking over the settlement and keep an eye on them from there.”
Unbeknownst to the lawmen, they were nearing the top of the last hill separating them from the desert settlement of Broken Hill. Cresting the hill, Bardwell reined in and steered to the cover of a few trees that clung to life up here in the mountaintops.
“The place doesn’t look like much,” Curtis said, still mounted.
Bardwell had dismounted and stood next to his horse looking the mile or so down the mountain to the desert settlement. “No,” he said. “I rode through Broken Hill some years ago and it was a nice little place. It had a saloon, a hotel, and a whorehouse.” He paused for a moment reflecting. “I don’t reckon they have any of that now?”
“Want to make camp at that spring fed creek back down the hill?” Curtis asked, stepping to the ground. The sun was down and the day coming to a quick end.
“That will be fine with me,” Bardwell said. “Let’s boil some coffee and get some supper down, then kick some dirt over the fire and get back up here to gather us some information as to how these folk operate down there.”
“We can let the fire burn itself down, Sir,” Curtis pointed out.
“They have a flying ship, Son,” Bardwell said, leading his horse down the mountain in the gathering darkness. “It wouldn’t do either of us any good if they spotted us up here from the air?”
Curtis bit his lip, embarrassed. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” he said.
“No harm done, Son,” Bardwell said. “In time, nothing will get past you, but in the meantime, you’re riding with me.”
The mounts were unsaddled and hobbled near the creek. The water was good and the grass was tall. There was plenty of feed to keep them for weeks along the fast running stream.
Not much was said as the pair of lawmen boiled their coffee over a small fire. The meal consisted of nothing more than hard bread and dried beef. Curtis had long since stopped packing the ready to eat meals the state sent him out with.
“You know,” Bardwell said. “Even a blind hog will find an acorn occasionally?”
“And just what is that supposed to mean, Sir?” Curtis asked.
“Just what I said,” Bardwell replied, getting up to kick dirt over the coals. The fire had more or less burnt itself down. In normal circumstances, he would have let it burn, but McDaniel was said to have employed one of the flying ships used by the elders. Even the smallest of fires would be seen from miles away if by air.
Curtis tucked a few cigars in a shirt pocket. Bardwell bit off a mouthful of tobacco and the pair started back up to the ridgeline in the dark.
“What do you hope to find?” Curtis asked.
“Nothing really,” Bardwell said. “Just get some idea of how these folk live and what they do.”
“You really think they move around much after dark?” Curtis asked.
“The cockroaches don’t come out in the daylight,” Bardwell said. “Now, do they?”
“I guess that you’re right, Sir,” Curtis said.
Bardwell sat near a big tree at the top of the hill. The air was clear and the hilltop provided a good view of the settlement. Curtis leaned against the other side of the tree and struck a sulfur match placing the flame to a new cigar in his mouth.
Dim yellow light escaped from a few windows down the hill in the desert settlement. Nothing much stirred from this hilltop vantage point. Bardwell had his knife out slicing the bark from a handful of sticks to pass the time. Curtis smoked at his cigar wondering why he had come this far. If he knew his superior as well as he thought he did, Bardwell would sit up here for a week, maybe more?
Before long, Bardwell had his ancient timepiece out for a glance. It was after nine o’clock and nothing stirred in the valley below. An hour later and both of the lawmen were asleep under the tree. Bardwell with his head leaning against the trunk and the boy stretched out in the grass. A gentle, cool breeze carried up the hill from behind.
“Sir, sir,” Curtis said, reaching for his boss’s shoulder. “You’ll probably want to see this?”
“I see it,” Bardwell said. The senior lawman had been awake since the townsfolk had started the fires.
“What are they doing, Sir?” Curtis asked, rubbing the sleep from his tired eyes and watching the goings on below in the valley.
“It looks like they want to show someone the way?” Bardwell said, scanning the sky west of south. “You got your notepad with you, Son?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Curtis said, fumbling in his dusty leather bag.
Bardwell held up the ancient dial of his timepiece in trying to make out the time. “It’s just about twenty-five past eleven and I think we’re about to see why these folk have built up a fire?”
“Okay?”
“McDaniel’s flying ship,” Bardwell said. In no more than moments, the rotating wings of the flying machine were heard beating the still night air in coming over the mountaintops.
Curtis scribbled in his notepad. “What do you want me to write, Sir?” he asked.
“Eleven thirty, Monday, arriving from the south and west, Los Angeles,” Bardwell said. The lawman reached out his field glasses ready for a better look once the ship had landed.
Below in the valley, those gathered to witness the arrival of the great flying machine stood near the safety of the fires. There were maybe ten in all.
The ship circled over the area and set down right between the many small fires burning in a semicircular fashion well away from the buildings of the village.
Bardwell had the field glasses to his eyes scanning the valley floor below.
“What do you see?” Curtis asked.
“Oil drums,” Bardwell said. “It looks like they’re offloading kerosene to keep the machine in the air?”
“They must bring it in from Los Angeles?” Curtis said, more or less thinking out loud.
“We’ve got a few others outside now,” Bardwell said. “They look to be zombies from the way they’re walking?”
Bardwell handed the device to the boy for a look.
“You’re right,” Curtis said. “They’re rolling those barrels into one of the barns nearby. Must have brought in a load of fuel and a few girls from the look of it?”
The lawmen continued to watch from the hilltop perch as the night passed into morning. Some of the townsfolk were busy with the flying machine, while others pushed carts loaded with bundles of the long grass grown in the fields nearby.
Fires that had been built earlier in the night when the flying ship had landed had burned themselves down. Torches lined the dust
y lane between the village buildings. The northern side of the settlement was still a beehive of activity at this late hour. As tired as they were, the lawmen were wide-awake and watching.
Time passed ever so slowly for the tin star lawmen. Below, torches were relit and one of the fires rekindled.
“Sir,” Curtis asked.
Bardwell didn’t reply, he continued to survey the activity in the valley below. A line of thin bodies were herded to the back of the great flying machine by a handful of shadowy figures. It was too dark and the distance too great to make out detail. He handed the field glasses over.
“They’re fixing to leave,” he said.
Curtis studied the early morning scene unfolding. “Sacramento, Arroyo de las Vegas, or back to Los Angeles?” he asked.
“I reckon that we’ll know by the direction they head?” Bardwell replied. Even at this distance, the lawmen could hear the whine of the great kerosene engines coming to life and shattering the peaceful morning quiet.
In the valley below, the few townsfolk still up, had cleared well away from the flying machine. A few electric lights were seen about the ship with its rotary wings beating the cool air. The machine lifted itself a few feet, dipping from side to side before lowering its head and climbing steadily forward.
The lawmen watched as the machine climbed higher into the early morning sky. It was still a few hours till the daystar would wake.
“Two forty-five,” Bardwell said. “Write it down.”
Curtis fumbled for his pad and pencil scribbling the additional note. 2:45, DEPARTURE.
Circling back as it rose, the flying ship made a low pass starting in an easterly direction. Most of the recognition lights were now extinguished. The dark machine stood out against the starry black sky.
“East to Arroyo de las Vegas,” Bardwell said, watching the activity die down on the valley floor below.
Curtis made note, 2:45 DEPARTURE, EAST ARROYO DE LAS VEGAS.
“What now, Sir,” Curtis asked.
Bardwell was already on his feet and starting for their camp down the hill. “We get some rest and do it all over again tomorrow.”
There was no fire burning or coffee boiling to greet the tired lawmen this morning. Both rolled out a tattered wool blanket and stretched out in the grass for some well-deserved sleep during the cool of the morning. Anything resembling discussion had ceased walking down the hill from the lookout under the trees. They were asleep before five full minutes had passed.
Ten o’clock saw Curtis beginning to stir. Bardwell stoked a small fire where a can of strong black coffee boiled.
“Morning,” Bardwell said, reaching for the can. “I was wondering if you were going to wake up this morning?”
Curtis laughed. “It’s not like we didn’t stay up half the night.”
Bardwell sipped coffee from a dented tin cup that he had carried in his saddlebag for what seemed a lifetime.
“We going to watch them, folks, again today?” Curtis asked, reaching the stub of last night’s cigar closer to the fire.
“No,” Bardwell said. “I reckon that we should ride into Desert Spring. We can board the horses and take us a room for the night. We’ll be needing supplies up here if we’re planning on staying long.”
“Do we plan on staying up here long?” Curtis asked.
Bardwell thought the question over some before answering. “I’d like to get a good idea of how these folk operate before we go charging in looking for McDaniel?”
“Makes sense,” Curtis said. “And I’m just about out of cigars anyway.”
Once they agreed, the lawmen saddled their mounts and started down the hill riding well clear of Broken Hill and the folks there. It was a long day in getting to the little desert town, but worth the effort. The horses were boarded for the night and the lawmen had secured a room before a hot bath and a good meal. It was the first real supper they’d had in more than a week.
Desert Spring had a saloon. It wasn’t much to speak of this far out on the desert floor—nothing to write home about at any rate—but it would do for the two weary lawmen.
A fading board sign hung over the doorway from rusting chain. LIDIA’S it read. “What can I get for you gentlemen?” the barkeep asked.
“Two whiskeys, Mister,” Bardwell said, laying a piece of silver on the rough boards of the bar.
The barkeep pulled the towel from his shoulder wiping at a pair of glasses. He poured them both full and set them in front of the lawmen that were careful to conceal their identity.
Outside in the one street through town, a mule skinner whipped at his beast of burden pulling a load of firewood down from the mountain range.
“Get on you old, son of a bitch,” the mule skinner yelled. “Or I’ll shoot you right here in this God damned street.”
The lawmen had a sip of the swill presented as whiskey. “That’s not bad,” Curtis said, turning for a look out the bubbled glass window between the saloon and the teamster out front, busy whipping his animal.
That teamster was down off his cart and removing a rifle to follow through with what he’d promised. The animal was in a poor condition and appeared to be halfway to starvation.
Curtis turned up his glass. “I’ll have another of these,” he said to the barkeep. To his partner, he said, “I’ll be right back.”
The boy stormed through the swinging doors and started down off the raised walk, out into the street where the mule skinner was preoccupied in berating his animal.
“Go on,” the mule skinner said, as Curtis approached. “You ain’t got no business here, nigger.”
Bardwell turned up his glass and waited as the barkeep refilled them both, then walked out front to watch the scene beginning to unfold there.
“I believe that I do, Mister,” Curtis said, standing his ground. “When’s the last time this mule of yours has seen feed or water?”
“That ain’t any of your business, Nigger,” the mule skinner replied. He started into clubbing the musket that he held in his greasy hands and swinging it at the young lawman. If it weren’t for blowing their cover, either of the lawmen would have arrested the teamster for taking a swing at an officer of the law, tossing his ass in the poky for the night to let him think it over. But as the situation was, they’d have to deal with things in an unorthodox fashion.
Curtis—thirty years the younger—grabbed the barrel of the rifle in mid swing stopping it from coming closer and with his right, gave the teamster a good blow to the gut. The mule skinner didn’t expect the confrontation and drew back thinking things over for the moment gasping for air to fill his lungs.
The daystar was nothing but a memory now, but there was enough fading light for Bardwell to witness the event unfold in the street before him.
“Why I’m going to whoop your nigger ass, Boy,” the teamster said, drawing back for another go of it.
Curtis stepped forward planting one against the dirty man’s jaw and a second to his throat above his unbuttoned collar. The mule skinner went down in the dirt without a word. The young lawman worked to remove the animal from the traces keeping him attached to the unruly cart. Bardwell drank from his glass first and then finished the boy’s glass that he had carried out for the show.
The boy slapped the animal on the ass, freeing him from his bonds. Bardwell smiled finishing with the second glass. Braying his thanks, the mule stepped off down the street in the gathering darkness in search of water. Several had gathered across the street to witness the event unfolding in their little town.
“What the hell are you doing, Boy?” the mule skinner asked when Curtis grabbed him up by the collar. “I got rights you know.”
“Yeah,” Curtis said, pulling the dirty man to his feet. “And so did that mule of yours, Mister.”
“That lazy bastard wouldn’t pull his share,” the teamster said.
Curtis draped the harness over the man’s shoulders and held up the bit. “Take it,” he said, in a dark, cold voice.
The
mule skinner had seen the error of his ways now. “No Mister,” he said. “We’re good now. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Like hell you have,” Curtis said, removing one of his Peacemakers and thumbing back the hammer. “You put that bit in your mouth. We’ve got us a wagon load of firewood to pull.”
“No, Mister,” the teamster said. “Please?”
“Get to pulling, you filthy bastard,” Curtis said, climbing up on the wagon and grabbing for the mule skinner’s whip. “Pull it.”
The teamster began to cry under the sweat lathered leather harness. “No,” he said sobbing. “I won’t. I can’t.”
Curtis removed one of his Colt pistols and placed a round next to the dirty man’s boot. “Put that bit in your mouth and pull or I’ll kill you right here in the street, Mister,” he said.
The mule skinner resisted until Curtis thumbed back the hammer again and put the next one in the dirt between his feet. With that second shot, the teamster took the slimy bit in his mouth and struggled against the weight of the overloaded wagon.
Curtis cracked the whip with its leather tongue slicing the night air. “Pull it, you lazy bastard,” he said. “Or I’ll shoot you right here in the street.”
The comment was something resembling a comment made earlier when the lawmen had sat down at the bar and ordered a drink.
“I can’t,” the teamster cried, struggling against wood and leather. “It’s too heavy.
That whip cracked once again, this time slicing at the dirty man’s ass. He shrieked and jumped against the harness.
“Don’t make me come down from here, you hear?” Curtis said, again mocking the teamster, “I’d just as soon shoot your lazy ass and be done with it.” He cracked the whip again and again.
Slowly the wheels of the overloaded wagon began to roll. Just barely, but they did. A cheer went up from the gathered crowd.
Curtis stepped down from the wagon marching for the dirty little man under the harness. He pulled the bit from his mouth and yanked the mule skinner from the harness. “Now you get on, Mister,” Curtis said. “If I so much as see you again tonight, I’ll put a bullet between those beady fucking eyes of yours, you hear me?”
Ain't No Law in California Page 17